


you've lost your mind in the sound

by babybirdblues



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 7500 words of Grantaire, Alcoholism, Gen, Multi, Other, Suicide mention, Withdrawal, abuse mention, and I needed this fic, because I really love Grantaire okay, hinted other pairings too, no really it's all Grantaire and his relationships with people, platonic/sibling soulmates, there are triggers, this is basically gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:54:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybirdblues/pseuds/babybirdblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wednesday he makes sure the apartment is as clean as it will ever be - there are too many books, too many art supplies for it to be fully clean - before heading out.  The landlady has his rent for this month and next; the door is triple locked.  Hopefully everything will be as it is when he returns.  It’s not like there’s anything really worth much in it.  Though, the neighbour in five-a is more than likely to attack anyone trying to break in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've lost your mind in the sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morcai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcai/gifts), [IHaveNeverBeenWise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/gifts).



> So, I was inspired by the lovely Fritz because we both needed a fic where Grantaire helped himself. If anything doesn't make sense I'll be more than happy to ramble about my feelings for this fic. It took me over 6 months to write because I was lost in feelings and just. *waves hands*

There's a frailty in the air: heartbeats murmuring in between the white noise of life outside of Grantaire's car.  It hurts to breathe.  Hurts to think beyond the shaky rise and fall of one, two, in and out, keep breathing you know you can.  Rain patters the windows, lightning dancing across the clouds.  When thunder shatters the sky, it feels like it shatters bones.

Another car speeds past, honking its horn, the driver gesturing angrily.  It makes Grantaire angry - fleetingly - but he can't even bring up the energy to flip the asshole off.  R's arms are shaking, pulse fluttering rapidly underneath his ribs.  Each raindrop that hits the roof of the car makes a tempo for breathe.  But the tempo is too quick, too erratic.  There are too many layers woven into it and Grantaire cannot breathe.

_What am I doing?_

Panicking.

But _what am I **doing**_ **?**

Grantaire doesn't know.

This was the second job he's quit this month.  The fourth this year.  He can't keep doing this.  Was it only a year ago he had had a steady job?  What happened to that?  Probably the same thing that happened to school - but no.  That was different.  School was a bad idea from the start.  Grantaire never learned like others did and he was horrible at Maths and - the jobs he had, he was good at them all.

He doesn't know why he quit.

Other than that he's a coward.  Useless and drunk and -

a knock on the driver's window startles R out of his spiral of self loathing.  It takes him a minute to manage to roll down the window.  Luckily the torrential downpour has eased off to a light mist (when did that happen?).

The elderly man standing at the window is dressed in black.  The rain that soaked through the fabric nearly makes it seem like he's drowning.  But this stranger isn't the one who's drowning.  Grantaire is.  He's out on a private beach surrounded by people and no one notices he's going to drown.  Going to drown.  Not drowning.  That's future tense not present.

"-re you okay?  Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"Sorry?"

A relieved look flashes over a well worn face.  "Are you okay, young man?  I can phone an ambulance for you if I need to.  You've been sitting here for nearly two hours."

Grantaire didn't realise that.  But it's not surprising.  "Oh, no.  No I'm just.  I was really tired.  You're not supposed to drive when you're really tired, y'know?  And with the storm I really didn't want to risk it."

The stranger doesn't believe Grantaire - its okay though.  Grantaire doesn't believe himself either.  The important thing is he lets R go.  Let's R merge back into traffic, merge back into life.

_What am I doing?_

Changing this.

\----

It's Monday when he starts.

There are journals full of self-depreciating filth filling the bookshelves of his apartment.  They end up in a garbage bag - along with endless amounts of empty beer cans.  He's not taking those back to get more.  The stash in his apartment - albeit large stash - is what he'll use to cut down and then he's going to go sober.

It's Tuesday when he calls his foster mom.  She's delighted that he's trying to go sober; she's been worried about him for years.  It's a nice feeling, talking to her again.  Mama understands that he wasn't in the greatest of places.  Understands that she couldn't help him through it until he wanted it - tells him she was there herself when she was younger.  It makes him start crying.  (When she shushes him and tells him to come home anytime he wants, he remembers that his room is still his, always has been always will, as long as the house is hers, Grantaire begins to sob.)

That evening he decides to donate the bottles to the Corinth.

Wednesday he makes sure the apartment is as clean as it will ever be - there are too many books, too many art supplies for it to be fully clean - before heading out.  The landlady has his rent for this month and next; the door is triple locked.  Hopefully everything will be as it is when he returns.  It's not like there's anything really worth much in it.  Though, the neighbour in five-a is more than likely to attack anyone trying to break in.

The birds are chirping brightly when Grantaire stumbles in the door of Mama's Thursday morning.  The train ride was horrible, filled with creepy couples and a lot of eye contact avoidance.  His headache causes each sound to thrum behind his cornea.  He's a walking pulse, jittering out of his skin in a bundle of nerves.

(For the first time in a long while, he truly feels like he’s sick.)

It doesn't last long.

Breakfast is on the table: eggs, bacon, juice and full smells of home.  It makes Grantaire ache.  Makes him ache for younger years when everything was less complicated.  He didn't have to worry about jobs and how much of a fuck-up he was.  How to fix it.  He only had to know how to take care of Kenz when he was in his later years of grade school (and Ep, Gav and Azelma) because Mama would take care of him.  That was before he really screwed up.

"Well, what are you doing standing there you ass?  Mama made all this food."

Kenz gets no warning before R is wrapped around them.  (He curls his fingers in Kenz's shirt and not-so-subtly makes sure he can't count their ribs.  Makes sure that the scars on their back are fading like old scars should.  Kenz rests their cheek on Grantaire's shoulder and lets him have his reassurance.)  They don't seem to mind though.  They just sigh softly and pet at his hair, fingers gliding gently through the rough tangles.

"Come on you great lump.  Eat and then we'll go watch movies and cry.  I got _The Pianist_ out."

\----

Grantaire likes to say he remembers the next few weeks.

He'd be lying.

\----

There's a cacophony of noise in the apartment building when Grantaire makes it home late on a Wednesday afternoon.  Four-a seems to be emptying her apartment of her 'lying-shitty-excuse of a boyfriend's' shit - out the window, which is probably a hazard. Five-a is banging on the landlady's apartment (one-b) when Grantaire shuffles by.  R should probably be worried about the man who's tied up at five-a's feet but - well, there's a reason he's tied up.  (Five-a tends to only tie up those who give him a reason to tie them up.)  There also seems to be a party up on floor seven.

R's glad to be home.

His apartment is exactly as he left it, if a little dusty.

The first thing he has to do is plug in his cell phone.  Chances are his battery's dead from over two weeks of just sitting on his bedside table.  (He may have forgotten it on purpose.)  The time it'll take his phone to charge is the perfect time to heat up the leftovers mama sent and then shower.

The messages could even wait until he slept a night in his own bed.

-

_you have one hundred-forty new text messages and fourteen new voice mails_

-

Maybe the messages couldn't wait.

Grantaire manages to read three of them before the decision to phone Eponine is made.  Most of them are from her in the first place.  (He forgot to tell her he where he was going.)  Hoping she'll pick up for him, he dials.  As luck would have it, she does pick up, and on the third ring.  R doesn't let the fact that he's worried its bad luck - for his chance to sleep - that she answers bleed into his voice.

"Hey Ep, I'm home; tell the rest of the losers for me, okay?"

R doesn't get a response except some heavy breathing.  If he didn't know Eponine any better he'd think she was crying.  But Eponine doesn't cry - not since they were kids spending their first days in new homes (sneaking out to meet in parks and crying over bruises from foster parents who were supposed to look after you - that's why they were supposed to be fostering you and -).

"You can do it yourself."  It's clipped and cold.  Eponine chokes on the _you;_ her breathing unsteady.

"Ep?  Are you okay?"  She's silent.  Grantaire hears the scratch of a worn scrubbing pad being dragged across a counter.  (Eponine stress cleans.)  "Are the kids okay?"

"I would feel better if you didn't try to kill yourself every other week.  There's only so much over drinking, _overdosing_ I can watch you do Grantaire."

R feels like he just smashed into a building.  "I didn't.  I wasn't drinking or doing drugs, Eponine!"  His voice raises and he knows that his next door neighbour will hear him through the shitty walls.  But it's not like R really cares at the moment.  He can practically feel Eponine's tears.  Hell, his own eyes are beginning to water (he doesn't want to think about whether it's Eponine's lack of faith in him or if it's because he can understand her lack of faith in him).

"You disappeared.  And when you came back - which I had to catch a glimpse of you on the train - you came back looking like shit R, what was I supposed to think?"

Grantaire doesn't know.  But it wasn't that.  It wasn't that he went somewhere to drink himself to death (cold wracking his body, tremors shaking him to the floor) - to do drugs until his body failed him (throat burning as he dry heaves into the toilet, Kenz murmuring soothing words against his back - they gently press their fingers against his sides and rub).  He didn't.  (It was the opposite and he doesn't want to remember the two weeks.  He's glad he doesn't remember those two weeks.)  "I went to visit Kenz.  Seriously, that's all I did Eponine.  You can phone them and ask."

Eponine breathes for a moment.  "Okay.  Are you coming for the meeting tonight?"

That was the question he wanted to avoid.  He's not sure if he's ready; all he really wants to do is curl up and sleep for a day or two.  The guilt he feels about leaving Eponine is her state of worry is working up through his chest - pretty soon it's going to be choking him, R knows it.

"I, I probably shouldn't Ep.  The trip left me exhausted; you know how cranky I get when I'm exhausted.  But come over after it's done?" Grantaire rolls out of bed, resigned to cleaning the apartment of the weeks of dust.  "Bring the kids and crash on the pull out and I'll make breakfast tomorrow?"

The line is quiet.  

R takes that as a good sign though, the cleaning pad has stopped it's scratching drag.  He lets his phone dangle between his shoulder and ear as he pulls pants back on.  Eponine's answer will come soon enough; he's not going to push her.

"Okay.  We'll be there around eleven.  The key's in the regular spot?"

"Absolutely, chipmunk," the clock takes that moment to chime twice.  Two in the afternoon: plenty of time to clean the apartment and then crash.  "I might be out cold, just shove me over for whoever wants to crash with me."

"Oh go bite it."

They hang up laughing, which is more than R expected.  His shoulders are tense from the fear (guilt) of hurting Eponine.  Rolling them only helps so much; it's probably more psychological than physical at the moment.  Whatever the case he has an apartment to clean.

\----

In the end, Grantaire doesn't wake up at eleven.

When he does wake up there's a small elbow digging into his tender ribs and a hand splayed on his face.  Eponine obviously decided he'd have to suffer Gavroche's sleeping habits last night.  But that's okay.  It just means he's up earlier than usual - going to sleep earlier helped.  Being up earlier just means he can start on breakfast, like he promised - before any of them wake up and try to help.  (He remembers the little monkey trying to help once at Mama's when R was babysitting.  The fire department laughed at them after the threat of a two house fire was over.)

Cascades of bacon sizzle through the pan, piles of pancakes are set to warm in the oven, and eggs are scrambled and seasoned with pepper by the time Eponine raises herself from her cocoon on the pull out.  She eyes him for a minute before burying her face in his shoulder.

"I forgot how well you could cook, you ass."

R's smile dims in his eyes, the corners turning down.  The weight of guilt returns to his shoulders causing them to turn in, even as he curls his arms around Eponine's smaller form.  "Yeah, well chipmunk, so did I."

"Food!"

"And there's the bottomless pit that is Gavroche."

Said bottomless pit settled at the table - on all legs of his chairs, mind - and stuck his tongue out at R.  "I was promis'd food.  I bet'r get it."

Grantaire chuckles softly, ruffling sandy hair as he walked past.  "Uno momento por favor.  I need to see if our sleeping beauty is willing to get up for some food or if I'll have to kiss her awake."  The couch screeches before he even makes it within a metre of it.  Azelma fumbles around in her blanket before crashing to the floor.  "I see I don't have to awaken her with a kiss."

The glare R receives is poisonous.  "Kiss me looking like that and die."

Eponine shrieks with laughter at the table.  For a moment her eyes are no longer dark.  (Dark with the fear of Grantaire dying, of leaving them behind, lost to his vices.)

R's glad to be home.

\----

R makes Azelma and Gavroche do the dishes.  It's a house rule that started when he was first fostered by Mama - whoever cooked got to decided who did the dishes that night.  Generally, Grantaire would be the one who ended up doing them.  Mostly due to all of the sneaking out he did, and all of the trouble at school.  It wasn't quite a punishment - not with how soothing it was.  But it was something he still argued over.

Trying to get both Azelma and Gavroche to do the dishes together should be a disaster.  But they both know better than to argue with house rules - especially Mama's house rules.

Grantaire stretches against Eponine - who’s settled on the pull out again - feeling her chest rise and fall.  He’s grateful she’s allowing him this close so soon after she was angry with him.  There was once a time she disappeared for a year, leaving the kids with Mama, because she was angry with him.  (He found out later there was more to it.  But it started with their fight.)  He doesn’t want that kind of separation again.  The fear leaves bile rising in his throat; his lungs empty.  Taking Eponine’s hand, he squeezes, hoping it conveys his regret for the past weeks.  She flicks her gaze up to his face.  Her lips lack a smile, but there is no frown.  It’s a start.

Eponine must see something in his face.  She pinches his side, looking all too smug when he yelps.

“Not nice.”

“When have I _ever_ claimed to be?” Her hair catches the light as she tosses her head.  It’s no longer brittle and dry, like it was when they were kids.  If Grantaire is on the road to recovery, Eponine is already three-quarters of the way there.

Gavroche charges by yelling something that R doesn’t quite catch.  He’s sent scrambling for a plan a few minutes later when his poor excuse for a television is turned on.  His eyes settle on Azelma, curled up in one of the kitchen chairs reading a magazine, one she obviously brought with her.  (It’s sparkling, pink and claims to be able to help you get your one true love.  Grantaire would never be caught reading that, let alone buying that.)

“You still interested in learning to bake, princess?”

Azelma glances at R suspiciously.  “I might be.  Why, you offering?”

The kitchen is pristine, the oven cleaner than it has been in months, the cupboard actually full of groceries and Grantaire’s single game system is turned on with Eponine cackling in front of it.  R’s eyes dart to Eponine and back to Azelma.  Az smirks obviously catching on.  “Absolutely.  What do you want to learn first?”

\----

Marius knows he's allowed to just walk in.

It's a _Rule_ of R's apartment.  His friends all have the key and his apartment is a safe haven if they ever need it.  They don't need his permission to enter - he's never brought a partner home - but Marius, awkward duckling that he is, always knocks: even when he uses the key.  It's sort of a cute habit.

Sort of.

At least Grantaire always knows which friend it is coming in his door when he hears the knock.

Eponine shouts a greeting from where she’s kicking Gavroche’s ass at Mario Kart, evil tyrant that she is.  There’s a reason R’s still helping Azelma learn to bake instead of playing - Eponine is a wicked player.  (He’s fairly certain she cheats.  There were many, many bets lost in their younger years - many painful bets.)

“Don’t get sucked into the evil, Marius!  Don’t do it!  We’re in the kitchen if you want to survive.”

Marius’ nervous laughter reaches R’s ears just as Azelma scoffs at him.

“I’m sure I don’t have to do this to bake.”

“Oh but you do, princess,” a swing of R’s hips accentuate the statement.  “Dancing is an important part of baking.  You have to appease the baking gods.  Singing is another part for when you start doing complicated things.”

There is a small sound behind them.  Grantaire can’t quite classify it, so, he turns around.  Marius is standing just outside the kitchen area.  His eyes are wide and he looks confused.

Azelma looks worried for a few seconds before she must realise what’s wrong.  Even then the look on her face gets twisted.  It’s not quite upset, but it’s not quite a positive look either.  (It’s odd.)  She doesn’t say anything though, just lets Grantaire put his bowl down - the one he was using as a makeshift drum - and approach Marius.

“Hey, Marius.  What’s wrong, little duckling?”

It’s concerning how Marius only shakes his head, tucking his chin to his chest so ginger bangs - too long ginger bangs - fall into his eyes.

“Come on, little duck.  Tell this old stone what’s wrong and he’ll try to fix it.”

Marius’ eyes skitter sideways to the wall, hands flapping against his thighs and feet tapping out a pattern in the worn linoleum.  When the words come they are quiet and forced.  “You look like you’re dy-sick.”

Oh.

Well.

Grantaire wasn’t expecting that.  He should have been, he supposes.  Even during all the times before he was still a healthy-ish weight and everything.  The last two weeks were the hardest he’s had in a long time.  If he’s truly honest - he can be, he thinks, with all these people around him, these loved ones (he was honest with himself, by himself, once two weeks ago) - he was sick.  Still might be if given the chance.

\--

He doesn’t want to be sick anymore.

\--

Eponine has gone still on the couch.  It’s something they haven’t talked about in the hours they’ve been awake.  Partly because they don’t need words, partly because they’re both scared of hurting each other.

But Marius needs words.  Needs to know something because he doesn’t know R like Eponine does.  Doesn’t know - and he just lost his father, his home.  Grantaire probably doesn’t have to say anything.  He feels like he wants to.  “I was.  I was sick for a long time, Marius.”  

The sharp intake of breath could be Eponine but it could also be Azelma.  It’s not Marius, though.  Marius seems to have stopped breathing - eyes wide and lip trembling.  “But I’m getting better.   _I’m not dying_.”

It’s only a slight jerk, but it’s a positive recognition of Grantaire’s words.  That’s all he can ask for at the moment.

“Now come here, little duckling, and let me hug you.  You’re making me want to go get you a puppy.”

“I don’t think Courf’s landlord allows pets,”  Marius pauses before he stumbles into R’s arms.  “But I wouldn’t say no.”

R’s chuckles aren’t loud enough to drown out Eponine’s rather scathing remark of “what do you think you are?”  He’ll scold her later when they’re not all emotionally exhausted.  (It’s not like Marius’ can’t hold his own against the girl.  Truly.  Some of the things he says can’t be by accident.)

\----

The blinking light in the hallway casts a shadow as Grantaire softly closes the door.  He’s left the kids asleep, piled on top of each other on the pull-out; if only to sneak a smoke away from their keen gazes.  It’s just a regular cigarette, not any other kind, really.  But he needs it.  If he doesn’t have at least one drag, well, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to hide how his hands shake from them for much longer - especially not Ep.  Really, he should have known having them here would be hard.  R’s heart feels heavy, drained in the wake of pulling emotions.

At least the air outside on the fire escape is cool: refreshing even.

When R settles on the metal he breathes a sigh of contentment.  The chill of the steel is welcoming to his skin; it feels like his body has been dulled for a very long time.  It is still duller than it could be, years of abuse will do that, but if he had done this last week - if he had done this last week he would not have felt this.  This sensation of feeling the goosebumps rising on his skin is something he would have ignored.  Just as he would have ignored the beauty of just looking at the city as he smoked.

A door opens downstairs.  It’s most likely four-b; they’re the only apartment whose door ever makes as horrible a racket as that when it opens, which isn’t very often.  Some people would have said Grantaire had been becoming a hermit.  They hadn’t met four-b.  Hell, R hasn’t met four-b.  Not that he wants to, mind.  There’s not a lot of his neighbours that R wants the pleasure of exchanging pleasantries with.  

“What are you doing out this late at night?” the voice would make anyone else jump, suspicious and gruff as it is.  “Especially looking like that.”

Grantaire just grins.  Five-a is in fact one of his favourite neighbours, even if he is a bit of a grouch.  “Hiding from the kids.  It’s my weekend to look after them, you know?  Part of the custody deal.”

He gets a bland look for his effort.  “It’s Thursday.”

“Ah, not so!  It’s Friday now, Monsieur Javert,” Grantaire ducks a piece of plastic, laughing.  He’s still grinning when Javert sits down beside him on the fire escape.

“You don’t have a wife, ex or otherwise, Monsieur Grantaire, nor do you have any children,” here Grantaire is sure five-a mutters that it is a godsend that he has no children, “and thus you have no custody to make a deal with.”

“Alas, good sir, you have caught me out.  It is merely my dear sister, foster I might add, and her horrible monsters of siblings that I hide from,” the smile doesn’t fade from R’s face.  It merely becomes softer, more melancholy.   “Though, I do not truly hide.  I just, take a short leave.  One must have some time alone, before facing one’s family.”

Javert stays quiet for a long time.  Long enough that Grantaire thinks he will let R finish his smoke in silence and then they will part ways.  “One should not wait too long before facing one’s family.  It is not truly known how long you have with them.  If you do not have too long, you want to make your moments count; ones alone can be taken afterwards.”

Grantaire does not ask Javert who he speaks of.  He can tell that no matter how many years have passed that it is still a topic that hurts him.  “You might be correct.”

The man beside him smiles then, thumping him on the shoulder and standing.  “Of course I am, Monsieur Grantaire.  I have many years on you to speak with.”

“Are you calling yourself old, good sir?”

Javert mock-glares.  But he does not respond and Grantaire is left out on the fire escape to ponder over the last few puffs of his cigarette.  

\----

R is grateful when his apartment is empty, save himself, again.

It’s taken a few days to assure the kids - Eponine and Marius included - that he’ll be fine.  He’s not going to go disappearing on them.  In fact, as he told them, he’s planning on job hunting as soon as he had the time to settle down with himself.

Unfortunately, the silence makes him restless.

The soft melody echoing out from his speakers doesn’t make it better either.  The room causes him to ache with its stillness, its emptiness, now that he’s alone.  He doesn’t want to go out but he doesn’t particularly want to stay in.

So, before R knows it his feet have taken him out the door.  (He has to venture back into his apartment at first, because the streets of Paris don’t allow for you to wander barefoot; not like Mama’s on the outskirts of Loches.)

\----

The Metro is overwhelming.  At the same time, it’s a nice kind of overwhelming; when Grantaire’s on a train - or even on a platform - he can be a part of the crowd without being part of it.  The energy, the people, are there but he can separate himself from them.  He’s just another trickle of water flowing through the grate.  Men and women pass him by without a glance while a child might wave at him, happy to see another person.  R sketches, he watches people and breathes, here in the underbelly of Paris.

A little girl is making faces at him across the car.  Grantaire wants to make one back but he settles for smiling.  The car has just started out and it would be a shame to have to get off because her mother was angry at him for potentially targeting her child.

“It is wonderful to see you Grantaire.  Might I inquire where you’re going this evening?”

Jehan’s voice startles him.  To be fair, any voice talking to him at this moment would startle him.  But the fact that it’s a friend’s voice, one that knows him, is the most startling.  The chances of running into any of his tight knit circle is slim.  Mostly because they all live close enough to la Sorbonneto not have to take the Metro.  (Grantaire might’ve also been avoiding the Metro lines close to la Sorbonne, but, well.)

_\- station is our next stop.  Victor Hugo station is our next stop. -_

“I was thinking about taking the train to Robespierre in homage to our dear leader but I couldn’t ignore dear Hugo.”

The click of Jehan’s tongue is amused.  “A hard temptation to resist.  Tomorrow, if you are willing, we shall go pay homage?”

It’s an open ended request.  Jehan doesn’t need an answer, isn’t asking for anything R cannot give.  Xe’re leaving everything up to him to decide.  “Perhaps, darling teapot, perhaps.”

The curve of Jehan’s lips dimple xir cheeks: smile causing the creases around vibrant eyes to fold, eyes alight in mirth.  “Alas, it is getting late.  Would you like to join me for dinner, and perhaps, if you feel up for it, perhaps you might accompany me to the meeting tonight?”

A thump in the next train does little to drown out the sudden hammering of R’s heart.  Is he truly ready to face his friends, after leaving them for so long without notice?  Can he soothe them of their guilt?  Can he enter the Musain without aching?  The hesitation shows on his face; it must, for Jehan reaches out and takes his hand.  “It is all right, darling R.”  The smile is still there, softer now, less carefree but more - more Jehan.  “As long as you are okay, it can wait.  Do you want me to walk you home if you're not coming?  It is not out of my way.”  

They pass three more stations while Jehan waits for Grantaire’s answer.  In the wait xe does not let go of R’s hand.  Xir hand is warm, fingers calloused and long, curling in firm confidence around R’s own worn and shaky ones.  

_\- me station is our next stop.  Rome station is our next stop. -_

“No,” his chest hurts, but he breathes.  Breathes and grips Jehan’s hand just a little bit tighter.  “No, I think I would like dinner.  If we happen to stay a bit later for the meeting, well, we stay for the meeting.”

\----

He doesn’t want to be scared anymore.

\----

They’re seated comfortably in the Musain within a half hour.  It’s well before the meeting time, so if Grantaire does end up not wishing to stay that is all right: he has time to sneak out.  The only problem at the moment is that Jehan refuses to let R pay for the food.  In fact, xe is going so far as to bullying R into submission through blackmail. It would be amusing if the sweet smile on xirs face wasn’t so terrifying.  So, in the end, Grantaire has no choice but to let Chantelle - their lovely waitress of the night - put them both on the same bill.

Jehan offers him a spirit with dinner but he turns it down.  A short, clipped “I’ve quit” is greeted with such an exuberant smile that R feels rotten.  He had support here, if only he turned and asked for it.

But he didn’t.

It is a relief that Jehan does not press for details.  But then again xe never presses.  Perhaps it is the poet in the small body of R’s friend.  Perhaps it is the complications that are all bundled up in xirs person that stops xer: makes xer reflective and supportive, waiting for everyone to come to xer.  Either way, R is grateful.

Less so when Bossuet’s voice echoes from the door to their little alcove.  Their cheerful friend is more than an hour early, which he is never so.  Not, at least, when he doesn’t have to be.  Jehan looks at R innocently enough.  But there is no mistake in Bossuet’s presence.

“Jehan!” Bossuet grins, “my good xir, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.  I do believe I lost my phone again and right after - R!”  There’s a tightness in Bossuet’s eyes as he looks at Grantaire.  But truthfully, R expected it.  Bossuet may not be the luckiest out of them, but you could not say he cared the least.

“Hello, my dear bald eagle.  What brings you out so early on this fine day?”  His throat is dry and even the few swallows he manages doesn’t help.  Mostly because he nearly chokes with how tight his throat feels.  Neither seem to notice.  Nor do they notice the tapping of R’s fingers upon the scarred tabletop.

“Joly wanted to have a dinner date before the meeting but I lost my phone,” his head tilted, eyes scrutinising R’s face.  “You look skeletal thin, dear R.  I would suggest hiding from Joly but he was moments behind me.  ‘Chetta had just been hanging up.”

At least Bossuet had been kind enough to warn him of the hurricane.  Though, he supposes, with the looks the wayward bad-luck charm was sending him, Bossuet was just the calm before the storm.

“Why don’t the two of you join us here?” the sigh the follows is audible, R knows.  He can see it in the way the skin around Bossuet’s eyes tighten and the way Jehan frowns at the napkin xe’s writing on.  But he cannot help it.  “It has been a long time since we have just been able to stop and talk.”

Bossuet agrees, going downstairs to snatch Joly from the front heater.

They manage to make it through dinner without anymore awkwardness.  (Aside from Joly’s multiple diagnoses at least.  Bossuet was quick to distract him at least with a few well spoken words about exams.)

In fact, it’s going so well Grantaire doesn’t even notice the others arriving until it’s fifteen minutes from the beginning of the meeting and they’re only missing a few people.  Jehan gets a dirty look, which, of course, is shrugged off.  Xe knows that R won’t leave now.  Not when he really wants to stay and see everyone he missed so dearly.

The first one to scurry over is Marius.  He’s still shy in the meetings - but R doesn’t blame him: after a year of constantly being told he wasn’t welcome, he was only Courfeyrac’s roommate, well, it would be hard to keep your confidence, as shy as Marius was.  So, R scoots over and let’s Marius settle on the bench beside him.  He barely notices when Joly and Bossuet start talking about the last meeting because he sees Bahorel notice him then.  The look she gives him isn’t one R wants to really delve into.  But seeing as she’s heading his way he pastes on a grin - at least he thinks it’s one.  Judging by the way Marius has gone quiet it’s more of a grimace.

When she finally makes it over (drawing it out torturously slow; she makes sure to elbow Feuilly on the way over muttering something that R has no chance of hearing) she keeps her voice low, “I’m glad you dragged your ass back here alive, you piece of shit.”

Grantaire deserves it, he knows.  But it still - it still causes his chest to tighten and his breath to catch in his throat.  “Sorry.  Look, I, sorry.”  There must be something there that everyone can read.  Something R doesn’t know he’s showing.  (Where did all the walls he built up before go?  Oh, right, they drained with all the alcohol.)  Because Bahorel snorts and plops herself down in R’s lap.  She gets an arm around the back of his neck and presses her cheek against his.  

“Don’t do that again, stupid honey badger.  Y’hear me?  Next time you do I’m hunting you down and killing you.”

Grantaire allows himself to breathe, shaky though it is.  “Yeah, I hear you, snapdragon.  I don’t know where I’d be without your glorious self.”

Bahorel grins wickedly; sharp teeth and lip piercing shining.  “Probably in jail annoying the shit outta the guards.”

Joly makes a horrified face and mutters about the cleanliness of their respective jails.  Bossuet’s eyes light up though as a giggle escapes him.  “But you’d be right there with him!  Well, of course you’re prettier and wouldn’t be stuck with the men.  But you’d still be in jail.”  Bahorel preens, even as Joly pouts and cries foul to Jehan about cheating partners.  Jehan pats Joly’s head and mentions that he can always tell Musichetta about it.  The two look at each other before shuddering, causing the table to break into laughter.  It’s only broken by a distinctive cough.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras is stunning, even with a disapproving frown on their face.  “As glad as we are that you are back, it would be nice if you could inform us where you’ve been.”

But the thing is, when Enjolras uses that tone, there’s no request, it’s an order.  They expect you to tell them, whether you want to or not.  Even though they used we they really mean I.  And R’s not too sure he can tell any of them where he went.  Sure he told Jehan quickly that he stopped drinking but there’s a difference between a gruff shooting down of a drink and actually explaining.  Grantaire sees Eponine looking at him worriedly over the backs of Courfeyrac and Combeferre - who are flanking Enjolras like always.  If it were any other night R would make a joke.  But it’s not any other night.  Instead it might be time for deflection.

“I would but the meeting should be starting now,” he tries for his best charming smile.  Not that it ever does him any good, being lopsided at the best of times.  The scars seem to stand out more tonight, pulling his lips into a misshapen mess.  “Can’t let the schedule go off balance.”

Enjolras isn’t buying it.  “We can for tonight.  I doubt that anyone is going to be concentrating and quite frankly, you look like shit.”

Well, ouch.  He knows he’s not handsome by any definition of the word.  But that stings.

Combeferre moves forwards then (R sees your hand untangling from Courf’s dress Ferre, look how smooth you are), smiling softly.  “What Enjolras means, Grantaire, is that you went missing and now you look incredibly sick.  We’re worried.”

And doesn’t that make him feel worse.  He glances at Eponine again - who’s crossing her arms and not looking at him - before hunching his shoulders, making himself smaller.  “I, uh, went to Mama’s,” R pauses, worries his bottom lip and wonders if they’ll leave it at that.  Think it’s a stripper club or something.  A quick glance at Enjolras and their raised eyebrow says no.  “To detox.”

Marius - who still hasn’t moved from beside him - tangles his hand in R’s sweater.  There’s a silent hiccup from the kid, who, yep, is crying again.  At least most of the tears are already out.  The same cannot be said for the rest of Les Amis.  Bahorel, who at some point moved to the bench on his other side, is frowning in confusion.  

“Detox,” the word is slow.  She’s tasting the word with brows furrowed.  “Like, alcohol detox?”

The brief nod R gives sends his friends into a cacophony.  Joly and Bossuet upend the table trying to get to him.  They send Marius scrambling away in fright.  But that’s not really hard - at least Eponine is close by to handle that.  Because the little duck still looks like he’s going to start bawling given the chance.  Enjolras is frozen amidst the sea of shouting and tears, staring at R like they don’t know him anymore.  R supposes he and Enjolras never really did get to know each other, not like the others.  Soon enough Bahorel has joined Joly and Bossuet in smothering Grantaire within and inch of his life, so he doesn’t get to see the faces they’re making anymore.  What he does get is constant streams of words.  Most being how proud his friends are of him, though there is the occasional question of _why didn’t he tell them_?

But it was hard.  Hard to make the decision and hard to follow through.

Telling them before he succeeded.

Well, he doesn’t want to think of that.

Eventually Jehan saves him from the pile of limbs that was leading to his death - by smothering.  It’s then that he escapes for a smoke.  Because he’s shaking, in elation for finally telling them, in fear for the exact same reason, and probably a little bit from exhaustion.  The balcony is out of use at the moment but he knows Madame won’t mind him making use of it for a few minutes.

Unfortunately, using the balcony means there’s no escape from Enjolras when they corner him.

“Grantaire.”

He breathes in, smoke trailing up into the night sky in lazy circles as surely as it sits in his lungs.  “Yeah?”  R acknowledges them but doesn’t turn to face them.  It’s enough to know that Enjolras - his shining beacon of light, his muse and destroyer (has he given up one addiction for another?) - has come out here to talk to him, was worried about him.

But Enjolras is quiet for a long moment.  It’s only when R gets fidgety, thinking about turning around and heading back in that they talk.  “I’m sorry.”

That startles R.  Startles him enough into turning around, wide eyed and loose limbed.  “What?  What for?”

There’s a furrow in Enjolras’ eyebrows, their fists are clenched and they look _frustrated._  “We didn’t, _I didn’t_ notice.  That it was getting so bad.  I claim to be your friend but-”

R laughs.  It comes deep from his diaphragm and for once he doesn’t feel bad for making Enjolras angry or at a loss for words.  (Not like in some of their debates.  The bad ones that R barely remembers.)  "Enjolras, don’t.  Really, I started drinking on my own.  It was my own responsibility.  You aren't my parents, and even my parents never had that responsibility.  I make my own choices.  Anyways, I needed to do it myself.  If I can't take care of myself, right?"  Enjolras doesn’t reply and Grantaire is glad.  Perhaps they notice that R has more to say.  “I’m just.  I’m just glad that all of you are here for me after, you know?  Because it’s going to be hard.  It has been hard.”

The last bit is a whisper and R isn’t even sure Enjolras hears him.  But just as he’s raising his head - and when did he look to his feet? - arms encircle him, soft blonde hair brushing his face.  “I’m proud of you.  So are the others.  We’ll be here when you need us.”

Grantaire’s throat feels tight again.  It takes him a few tries to raise his arms and hug Enjolras back.  But he does.  They stand like that for a few minutes.  It must be a few minutes too long for their friends because when R glances to the doors leading in, Courf and Bahorel are making faces at them.  Grudgingly he pulls away, “I think the children are getting bored, oh fearless leader.”

Enjolras turns to the doors and sighs.  “It appears so.”  They lead the way in, making sure to smack Courfeyrac with the door, ignoring the extremely loud protests he makes about best friend abuse.

\----

  


Grantaire is too full for another dinner, but that doesn’t stop the rest of them from ordering a lot of food and making him share.  What surprises them the most is that none of them order any alcohol.  Normally each of them would have a drink with dinner - sans Enjolras - but tonight they’ve held off.  It makes Grantaire’s eyes burn and his chest feel heavy.

Every so often someone will ask R a question about the detox.  They avoid the details, asking instead about where he was - Loches - who he was with - Kenz and Mama - things like that.  It’s nice.  Different, but nice.  Feuilly even asks if he managed to get any inspiration while he was out of Paris.  He didn’t but he thinks he has some now.  R tells Feuilly as much, ignoring Bahorel’s calling of if anyone is the muse.

After a specific question about the food in Loches (more specifically Mama’s food and what it would take to get some) Feuilly stops, fries halfway to his mouth.  “Wait, you have a mom?  I thought you were orphaned too.”  Eponine bangs her head off the table, giggles erupting at the looks of horror and deer-in-headlights on the rest of Les Amis’ faces.  R can’t help it he laughs too.  It’s nice, being able to laugh so soon after such emotional upheaval - he still pelts Feuilly with a mozzarella stick.

“Well, when two parents love each other, normally a man and a women, a penis is inserted into a vagi-” R is cut off as Courfeyrac screams and throws her hands over Marius’ ears.  It’s not any use though because he keeps talking.  Sure, he has to get louder as Courf starts to lalala over him.  But’s its worth it.  “You know, some are through AI or ICI or even having surrogates. Hell I think you can even have a kid with genes from same sex parents now.  But yeah, the point is I have a mom, though I was with Mama."

Everyone but Eponine and Marius, who still blissfully has Courf’s hands over his ears, look so confused R just has to sigh.  It’s incredibly fond and he hopes it comes through.  “My foster mom.”  He thinks the fondness comes through anyways.  At least, the squeeze Enjolras gives his hand hints to it.

**Author's Note:**

> I have plans to write more about this verse eventually. I had plans with Montparnesse but he didn't really fit in. Also if you noticed any mistakes or inconsistencies, please point them out. This is unedited. Ahahahaaaa. And I was looking at the map of the Paris Metro and there is totally a station called the Victor Hugo Station and the Robespierre Station. I spent a good hour being amused looking at all the stops.


End file.
